


Tony Stark & Late Night Calls

by feetheimpossiblegrl



Series: Tony Stark VS [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Steve Roger's has PTSD, This is basically a comfort fic, Tony Stark is Peter's father, tony stark is a good man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 11:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feetheimpossiblegrl/pseuds/feetheimpossiblegrl
Summary: Tony and Steve's relationship develops thanks to a late night call made by a distressed Steve.





	Tony Stark & Late Night Calls

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody, this fic marks the first in a set of three within this universe that deals with anxiety/ptsd and trauma. I don't go into much detail in any of the fics (they're all about the comfort, not about the hurt) but it's worth it to know that these things will be mentioned. I study psychology, and research what I write. I'm not perfect so if you see anything you think is in poor taste or is written incorrectly please, please contact me at my Tumblr (feetheimpossiblegirl) or leave a comment.  
> I hope you enjoy the next 'installment' of the Tony Stark Versus verse. 
> 
> comments/kudos appreciated.

Steve dreams of falling, the sickening feeling of stability abandoning him, with nothing but open air at his feet. He dreams of the terrified screams of a childhood friend, a brother in arms, as he plummets to earth. Steve dreams of the cold, of exhaustion seeping into his bones as he searches and searches. He dreams of when he finally stops searching, finally settles into the snow and finally lets himself rest.

Steve wakes because of the shivers, the numbness in his fingers making it impossible to uncurl the fists he’s made in his blanket. His teeth chatter, his body curls in on itself, seeking the warmth that sapped out of him as Bucky fell.

Some nights a soft prayer, murmured into ice cube fingers will help. His breath ghosting over the numb digits until he slowly warms back to life.

Other nights, bad nights, he pulls out the thermal blanket, turning it all the way up. Shivering in his long sleeve t-shirt and sweats, even as his hair plasters to his head with the sweat.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

* * *

Steve has never called Tony, this late. He’s never the one to dial the phone and wait while the line rings and eventually Tony picks up with a breathless, groggy ‘hello?’. Tony always places the late-night calls, seemingly unaware of the time as he pulls Steve from his dreams.

So, when Tony stirs at a quarter after two in the morning, Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars rousing him from whatever dream he had been drifting into, he’s surprised.

_I don’t quite know._

Tony grapples for his phone, reaching onto his nightstand, hand moving aimlessly in the dark as he tries desperately to locate the device that’s still singing to him.

_How to say._

Fuck me, Tony thinks. Wondering why he chose this stupid ringtone for stupid Steve. But he knows why. Tony remembers digging endlessly through archives of available ringtones. Looking for just the right words, before making his own.

_How I feel._

Finally, Tony thinks as he locates the godforsaken phone. He answers quickly, briskly. Because Peter is having a fun weekend with Ben and May, Tony went for drinks with Clint this evening and he can’t hold his fucking booze like he used to and he just wants to go back to sleep.

“Yes?”

“ _Tony_?” Steve’s voice is broken, lost in a way that immediately jerks Tony into the land of the sober and the waking.

Something is wrong.

“Stevie-kins? Are you okay?” Tony tries to keep calm, tries to bite down on the anxiety that is clawing its way up his chest. Threatening to pull out the arc reactor and leave him gasping for air while shrapnel tears through his heart.

“ _Y-yeah I… I’m sorry I called. I… I d-don’t know why I c-called._ ”

Tony’s never heard Steve stutter before. He’s trying to wrap his head around what might have happened, what could leave Steve in such a vulnerable position. It’s only been a few days since their weekend out with Peter and the gang. Tony can’t think of anything nationally that’s happened in the last few days, nothing at the school. He can’t fathom what’s happened to Steve to cause this.

“ _… I just… I’ll let you go. Clint told me you were having drinks tonight. I’m sure you’re tired._ ”

Tony’s thoughts break right as Steve is trying to get off the phone with him. Voice still breaking, he still sounds like a child lost in a storm. Whatever they are Tony knows Steve means a lot to him. Steve means almost as much to him as Peter does. He goes to bed at night wishing Steve were curled into the bed with him. He makes breakfast for Peter wishing that he could be making breakfast for Steve as well. So, Tony does what anybody would do for a loved one in distress.

“Steve, babe, where are you?”

“ _I’m… I’m at home. Under the bed. Where it’s safe. I think... I think I’m safe here. It’s warm, I know that. It’s warm and I think I’m safe._ ”

“Okay, honey bunches. Hold tight. Stay there. I’m coming to you okay?”

Tony’s already out of bed, pulling sweats on over the boxers he had fallen asleep in. He doesn’t bother with turning on a light, instead he gropes in the dark for the AC/DC hoodie he knows is somewhere near the foot of his bed because that’s where he kicked it off after spending all night in the workshop Thursday.

“ _No!_ ”

Steve’s exclamation nearly stops him, causing Tony to pause for a long, tense moment as he interprets the situation before resuming his activities.

“ _You might get hurt. I… Tony I don’t want you to get hurt. That would be my fault and I can’t live with it if somebody gets hurt because of me again._ ”

“Stevie-kins,” Tony says, voice calm as he finally locates the sweater. Throwing it over his arm as he heads to grab the keys for the inconspicuous sedan he drives when carting Peter around. “I’m going to be safe. I’ll drive slowly and safely. I’m coming to make sure you’re safe. Okay?”

“ _What about the cold? It’s so cold, Tony. What about the cold?_ ”

“I’ll bundle up, okay buddy? I’ll stay warm. I promise. Just… sit tight okay babe? I’m on my way.”

* * *

Tony Stark is a law-abiding citizen. He’s worked hard to purge his company of anyone that put human life at risk, he's paid for any parking tickets he's accumulated, he doesn’t hurt people, he doesn't let his company hurt people anymore either.

That doesn’t mean Tony Stark won’t bend the laws when he wants, he’ll bend them until they’re near breaking when somebody he loves is at risk. Tony Stark runs two red lights and breaks the speed limits to reach Steve in a record 17 minutes. Arriving shortly before 3 am.

It doesn’t take him long to find Steve’s hide-a-key _. I’ll have to install something better_ , Tony thinks to himself as he easily locates the fake rock under the porch swing.

Steve’s house is, nice. The front door leads into a spacious living room, a large t.v. and a worn, but comfortable looking couch and easy chair take up the majority of this room. The house is old, but not in disrepair. Tony guesses the house was built in the twenties, maybe Steve inherited it. He makes his way down a short hallway, two doors to his right, and one to his left. A small kitchen sits at the end of the hallway. During the phone call, Steve told Tony he was under the bed. The kitchen is too far if that’s the case. It looks like the French doors only open to a backyard. One of the doors to his right or left contains Steve’s room.

Tony stills, quietly listening for any sound that might help him determine which room is Steve’s. He’s not completely sure why Steve called him, sounding broken and on the verge of tears, but he is almost positive it has to do with the panic attack Steve had at The Tower the other day. Maybe PTSD from his time serving? He’s not sure, he can never be sure, Steve hasn’t told Tony a lot of his past, almost everything Tony knows starts with his time as a teacher at the school.

A soft whimper from the lone door on the left. Followed by the sound of somebody trying not to move. Tony guesses this is Steve’s room.

“Steve?” Tony whispers, entering quietly.

He takes in the large king-sized bed in the middle of the room. Matching lamps and nightstands on either side. They’re simple but distinctly Steve in their warm, vintage feel. The sheets are mussed, pulled half off the bed as if Steve didn’t fully wake before diving out and under. Pulling half of his bedding with him.

Moving slowly so he doesn’t startle the man, Tony speaks again, into the silence. “Stevie, babe, it’s me. It’s Tony.”

“T-tony?” Steve’s voice is still soft, it sounds wet and full of unshed tears. “Ho-how did you g-get here?”

Tony holds up his hands, slowly he lowers himself to the ground in front of Steve’s large bed.

“I said I was gonna come get you, honey, remember?”

“N-no. Maybe. I, I-I think. Did… did I call you?”

“Yeah, you did Steve. You called me. Why are you under the bed sweetie?” Tony keeps his voice calm, makes it soothing, the same way Rhodey used to do for him, the same way he now does for Peter on bad nights.

“I.. Tony. I-I heard g-gunshots? Maybe. I n-needed to get to safety. I-it’s c-cold.” Steve’s voice is soft, confused and scared. The way Tony knows he sounds when he comes out of nightmares about his time in the cave.

It doesn’t take long for Tony to return to his thoughts of Steve having PTSD from his time in the service, though he now wonders how he can help. He wishes he had Rhodey. Rhodey always knows what to do in these situations, he knows the right words and he would especially know how to help Steve.

“Steve, baby, can you come out from under the bed?”

“No!” Steve shouts, voice echoing in the small space. Tony doesn’t dwell on the way it cracks, breaking in a way that breaks his heart.

“Okay, that’s fine. It’s okay baby. Can I join you under the bed?”

“Y-yes. I think that’s okay.”

Tony lowers himself to his belly and slowly slides under the bed. He finds Steve with his back against the wall, curled into as small of a ball as he could. He looks so vulnerable, collapsing in on himself, eyes rapidly moving and taking in as much of the open area around him as possible.

“It’s me honey bunches. It’s okay. I’m safe. Are you safe? Did you get hurt?”

“I- no, I’m not hurt.” Steve’s eyes are wide and bloodshot. He continues to shiver.

“Hey, hey sugar bear. You’re cold. I need to get you into bed.”

“It… it’s not s-safe Tony.”

“Why isn’t it safe, Steve? Can I protect you?”

Steve pauses, body still shivering against the wall as his eyes rapidly cover the open space in front of him. Tony can almost see the wheels in his head turning before Steve whispers, so quiet Tony could only just hear his words over the distant Brooklyn night traffic.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Tony smiles softly, a little broken as he struggles out of the AC/DC sweater, wearing only a soft gray t-shirt underneath. The glow of the arc reactor is intense without the thick sweater covering it.

“I’m Tony, remember? They could strand me in the desert and I would fly out in a plane made of cacti and sand. I’ll be okay, Steve. And I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“You… promise?”

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

Another moment passes, slow and Tony wonders for a moment if he is going to have to sleep under this bed with Steve.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Tony can’t help the shock that leaks into his voice. He had anticipated a little more struggling before Steve would consider coming out from under the bed.

Steve simply nods. Following Tony out from under the bed. His movements are jerky and stiff. Tony wonders how long he was hidden under the bed before he was able to call.

“Do you want me to make you some tea, Steve?”

Tony watches, his heart tightening painfully, as Steve glances listlessly around his room. Eyes wet and searching. He looks as if he needs something, wants to find something, but isn’t quite sure where he is. So, Tony takes his hand, lacing his fingers with Steve’s larger hand. His fingers are stained with paint, always stained with paint. 

“Let’s have a cup of tea, okay Steve? It will make us both feel better.”

* * *

Tony finds himself standing awkwardly in Steve’s kitchen at 4 am while the kettle warms. The kitchen, located at the end of the hall straight back from the front door, houses a small dining area where Steve currently sits.  

He observes Steve as he locates mugs for their tea. The older man sits in a chair with his back against the wall. Similar to how he had been positioned under the bed. Tony watches Steve’s eyes as they roam the room, constantly monitoring their surroundings, seemingly ready for anything to happen. Steve’s eyes never stop moving, Tony can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he formulates thought afterthought on how to stay safe, stay protected, all of this even as he continues to roll in on himself.

Tony makes sure to stop the kettle before it’s shrill whistle startles Steve any further, he’s not sure what kind of setback that would cause, and pours the steaming hot water into two mugs. He waits five minutes, daring to check the emails on his phone. Two from Pepper about important meetings during the week and documents he needs to sign. He quickly skims the documents before checking the next email. One from Platypus, he’ll be on leave in December and wants to see Peter again. Tony makes a mental note to make reservations at Rhodey’s favorite restaurant as well as organize a time for them to take Peter to the museum or something. The rest is bookkeeping. Developments in R&D that need to be looked over before sent out, business offers from up and coming tech developers, the lone hate mail that somehow got through the secure server and the rare email from Justin Hammer flaunting something S.I. has inevitably just patented.

The five-minute steep time passes quickly, Tony removes the tea bags.

“Steve,” Tony whispers, keeping his voice soft and calm. “Do you like sugar and cream in your tea?”

Tony pauses, observing the slight shake of Steve’s head before slowly approaching the table. He gently sets the tea in front of them before sitting next to Steve.

“Steve, baby, what’s wrong?”

Tony waits, giving Steve time as he sips his tea. One moment passes in silence, then two. Tony’s nearly finished with his tea when he finally speaks again.

“I need you to talk to me, stars and stripes, I ca- I can’t help unless I know what’s wrong. And… and, seeing you like this… it hurts. What’s wrong babe?”

The use of one of Tony’s favorite pet names seems to breathe a little life into Steve, he uncurls slightly, sitting up a hair straighter in his chair before grabbing the lukewarm tea in front of him.

“Steve, honey bunches, can I touch you?” Tony asks. He ignores the excited flip in his stomach that occurs when Steve nods, ever so slightly.

“Okay, buddy. Thank you. I’m gonna hug you. Alright?”

Steve is bigger than Tony. He’s taller by several inches and broader, Tony has to resist the urge to crawl into Steve’s lap and just wrap himself around the man. Instead, he scoots his chair over, knee to knee and wraps his arms around Steve.

“It’s okay baby, I’m not gonna leave you. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

Tony doesn’t show his shock, doesn’t jerk away in surprise when Steve’s wet face cradles in the space between his neck and shoulder. Soothingly Tony rubs Steve’s back, letting the broken cries come. He doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t shush the man. He lets Steve sniffle and cry. He lets his t-shirt accumulate the tears of a man who seems lost.

And minutes later, when Steve is ready to talk, Tony listens.

“I used ta be this li’l guy,” Steve whispers. His breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of Tony’s neck and the man has to bite down on a shudder. “I used ta be smaller ‘an you. I was probably 100 pounds soaking wet.”

Tony’s brain struggles for a moment, reconciling the Steve he knows now with the slight, wisp of a man being described to him.

“I was always lookin’ for a fight, ya know? I didn’ have anything to prove.”

Tony tries not to focus on how thick Steve’s accent is, how he really sounds like the guy from Brooklyn right now.

“I jus’… I saw how mean and cruel people could be. I didn’—I don’ like bullies, Tony. I got in so many fights. An’ I got my li’l ass hand’d to me more times ‘an I could count, but I found my best friend that way,” Steve trails off for a second, lifting his head.

He shifts, scooting his chair so he is sitting next to Tony instead of across for him. The younger man only has one minute to mourn the loss of Steve’s touch before the man is leaning back into his space. Steve rests his head on Tony’s shoulder, sighing contentedly when Tony begins to card his fingers through Steve’s soft blonde hair.

“His name was James. Ta me.. he’s Bucky. He stumbled onto me getting my ass kicked three ways ta Sunday in tha alley behind tha house. Lived ‘ere with my ma at tha time. Buck chased away tha guys. Threw a few extra punches an’ made fun of my size.

After that we jus’… clicked. Did everything together.

He stuck with me through all’a it. Middle school, high school. Going from a tiny nobody to this guy on the football team. Stuck with me when I came out. Threatened to fight any sonovabitch who thought bein’ gay made me wrong or disgustin’.

We enlisted together.”

Steve stops talking, takes a shuddering breath and leans into Tony’s touch. The moment is tender, soft and special. Not like the intimacy Tony had avoided while in school. It reminds him of the moments he would allow himself with Rhodey and Pepper. Tony doesn’t speak, he just continues to softly run his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“Served for six years ‘fore we were offered positions in this organization, S.H.I.E.L.D. ‘ts like special ops, but more special. Buck loved it. He was a good sniper, I was good in hand to hand. Three years later S.H.I.E.L.D. sends us out on’a hell of’a mission. Stuck in the mountains of somewhere outside Germany. I dunno, they didn’t tell me that, just who to hit.

We infiltrate this train, the mission is messy but successful. The train torn to bits. We think we cleaned up, ya know? Catch tha big baddies, rope ‘em up. We’re callin’ S.H.I.E.L.D. for extraction when outta nowhere… this guy just comes outta fuckin’ nowhere an’ barrels for me. And Buck, the fuckin’ idiot, jumps in front of me. He gets pushed straight outta this.. hole in the side of the train. A bullet takes care of big idiot and I dive for Buck. Tony… I.. I got there and I had his hand. I was holding onto him. I coulda, I shoulda, been able to pull him back into the train. Back to safety. But I lost my grip. I lost my grip an’ Buck fell. An’ I was distracted ‘cause Buck just fell. I didn’t see, wasn’t payin’ attention when somebody came up behind me and pushed me. Then I was fallin’ too.”

Tony releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding. Steve’s voice is wet with unshed tears. The regret and distress of the memory rolls off him in waves.

“Took S.H.I.E.L.D. t-two days to f-find me. I t-thought… I thought I was gonna die. We never found Buck.”

Tony sighs, heart hurting for Steve, aching for the loss of a friend. He thinks for a moment, about how Rhodey came for him in the desert. Even after everybody thought he was dead and decaying Rhodey kept searching. He remembers with a sharp ache in his chest that he thought of Rhodey every day of his captivity. Thoughts of his best friends would fill his head at night in his dreams, or when he was being held underwater by hands much stronger than he.

He thinks, for a moment, he might be able to understand where Steve is coming from, the pain he would feel if Rhodey died while trying to save him.

So, he sits and quietly listens. Because this is part of what he wants, he wants to get to know Steve.

“Sometimes I really wish they had never found me.”

The silence becomes strained, there is so much Tony wants to say in response to that. He stops the words on the tip of his tongue because they’re cocky, dangerous and too much like the old Tony to be anywhere close to the right words to say.

“I’m glad they found you. I’m,” Tony chokes out, words clotting in his throat and leaving him unable to continue for a second as he continues to struggle for the right words, ones won’t cheapen the moment but will relay how thankful, how happy he is that Steve was found, that Steve is sitting here with him. “I’m so sorry about Bucky. But I’m glad they found you. Otherwise, well, I’m not sure Peter would have ever opened up if he hadn’t gotten a great art teacher like you. I’m… I like you Steve, a lot. I’m so sorry for what happened to your best friend, I can’t imagine the pain. But I’m glad they found you.”

Steve makes a small choked sound, as if he can’t quite fit Tony’s words in with the way he feels. Tony gets it. The feeling of failure, of falling short when it means the most to you can create so many lasting scars. But, his words are true, and he senses that Steve knows that, even if he doesn’t fully believe him yet.

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, sensing the conversation won’t be moving further unless he pushes. “Our tea is cold, but it seems like you’re feeling better… do you want to try and get some more sleep? It’s almost seven, but it’s a Saturday. I figure you can let yourself sleep in.”

Steve stiffens for a moment, his body grows tense and his breathing ragged before he speaks, voice tight.

“Ye-yeah, that… that works. I bet you’re tired. You go home to Peter.”

Tony notices the shift, how off Steve sounds, the way his voice is tight and wet once again, but also something else… he sounds resigned. As if he feared telling Tony the truth about Bucky.

“Hey, Steve. Hey, do you want me to stay? Petey is with his aunt and uncle. I have the tower to myself until Monday after school. Would… can I stay?”

“I… Yes, Tony. I think that would be nice.” 

* * *

It’s nearly eight when Tony tucks Steve back into bed. Steve shivers, body hard and tight until Tony finds the well-loved heated blanket in the back of the closet. Steve’s teeth chatter, the soundtrack to Tony’s busy work. He finds a plug-in and dials the blanket up to medium heat, before tucking it around Steve’s shaking shoulders.

Tony’s on his way out, spare blanket in hand to crash on the worn, comfortable looking couch in Steve’s living room when a soft voice pauses him in his tracks.

“Tony,” the brunette is surprised to hear Steve’s voice. He thought the older man had drifted off to sleep as soon as the heated blanket was draped over him.

“Sweetheart,” Steve continues when Tony doesn’t reply, his voice is pleading. “Stay, please.”

“Yes Stevie, dearest. I’m staying. I’m just gonna crash on the couch for a few hours.”

“No,” Steve’s voice is insistent now. The way Peter sounds when he wants ice cream badly enough he’ll actually speak to Tony for it instead of poking his father in the sides and signing to him.

“Stay here, in my room, in my bed. With me. Please.”  

“Oh,” Tony whispers, Steve’s words sweeping the ground from under him, stealing the air right from his lungs.

Everything about the night is so strange. Steve calling Tony, for help. The whispered way he tells him about Bucky while leaning into Tony. The explicit trust Steve is putting in Tony shocks the man. So much so he can only drop the blanket and crawl into Steve’s bed, he wraps himself around the bigger man as much as he can.

Steve asked him to stay. Steve asked to feel safe, warm, and protected.

So Tony stays. Tony curls around Steve and promises, to nobody in particular, while breathing in the heady smell of Steve. He smells of art. Of paint, paper, and clay. But also of the earth, he smells like a bonfire on a Friday night in October, the smell of sweet burning cedar mixing with the sharp smell of paint to make a scent that is so completely Steve. Tony drinks it in, let’s his senses be surrounded in Steve. He hopes that his presence, his body wrapped around Steve in nothing more than a friendly embrace, comforts Steve the way it comforts him.

Tony holds Steve, listening as he occasionally lets out a soft snore, watching as his chest rises and falls, evening out in sleep. Eventually he sleeps too.


End file.
